Any Other Way
by Notorious Introvert
Summary: Rather pointless fluff to melt some hearts. Matthew can't sleep alone on scary nights.


Author's Note; I wrote this when I was younger. Please excuse anything too ridiculous.

Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia.

Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat. The sound, so familiar on nights like this; nights of cloudy darkness, the greyed puffs concealing the ultimate night-lighter. A night where ghouls are free to roam, every branch is a monster in wait, each creak is the sly Boogey-man daring to creep closer and closer towards a bed's occupant. Nights where Francis lies patiently, just waiting for the hesitant parting of his bedroom door.

Sure enough, the tell-tale sound of a door being inched open. Pause. A quiet sniffle, near impossible to hear; unless, of course, you were expecting the noise. The Frenchman bit back a chuckle as little shuffles neared his finely-sized bed. Pause. Sniffle. And then, his covers were being shyly upped, removing a minimal portion of his sleepy warmth. An almost silent grunt later, and a small, warm figure was causing the mattress to dip. "Papa..?" whispered a tiny voice. "Papa?" Francis smiled kindly, heart soaring as miniature hands rested on his side. "P-papa..." the voice repeated, tears obvious with the lilting wobble. 'Mm.. That will not do,' the elder blond mused. Swiftly, the mysterious intruder was being lifted up into Francis' arms as the man sat up.

"Shh.. Oh, non, non, non, non. Matthieu, non," he murmured, using gentle kisses to stop the salty trails from continuing down chubby cheeks. "Matthieu, non. There is no need for that." The angelic boy lifted his head to face the Frenchman, curtains of silky blond locks falling back to frame the innocence. "Papa?" Francis' grin grew as he brought Matthew closer, rubbing their noses against each other in playful soothing. "Oui, mon cher. No more tears now, non? It makes Papa terribly upset to see his baby so distressed." The Canadian blond nodded slightly, pudgy hands coming up to rub away the remains of his tears. "Mm-hm.."

Matthew, comforted by the sight of his big and strong (as far as the toddler could see) form of his Papa, relaxed into the warm embrace, laying his little head against the French adult's bare chest. "Je t'aime," he breathed, violet eyes slowly slipping from sight as exhausted lids began to fall. Francis chuckled well-naturedly, cradling the tot even more securely to himself. "Mon amour, do you truly wish to lay with Papa once again?" he inquired, voice not disapproving, but rather amused by the situation. The answer was rather obvious, though the man thought worth asking. No routine was to be broken.

Another timid nod was all the confirmation that Francis needed. "O-oui, Papa. Please." Matthew, such a polite boy, remembering his manners. The elder male leant his face down and tenderly kissed the young forehead in reassurance. "Oui, mon petit. Papa would not have it any other way."

Thump. Thomp. Thump. Thomp. Pause. Sniffle. Creak. Francis, long-used to being the only occupant in his bed on nights like this (dark, moon-concealed nights) shifted as he was jerked back to the land of the conscious. It seemed that only war experience kept the Frenchman from jumping up or even drawing a sharp breathe in his surprise. Footsteps. Cautious footsteps. They carefully made their way beside the European nation's bed. A sniffle. Who was this intruder? What intentions did- Sniffle. Pause a moment. He knew that sniffle. Careful lids cracked open slowly, revealing wisdomous cerulean eyes. Long, blond locks, so similar to his own, framed a matured face, still owning enough baby-fat in the cheeks to be heart-shaped. Bright violet eyes, bordered by thin ovals of glass, peeked out from behind a single, rebellious curl.

Violet met blue as the two men finally made eye contact. Blush, red as his notorious rose, decorated his intruder's cheeks. "Ah.. B.. Bonsoir, Papa.." Matthew whispered, nervously fiddling with his hem and glancing anywhere but at man. Francis stared at the North American country blankly, unexpected apathetic manners unnerving the pancake-lover. "D-d sol , Papa. I'll just.." Before another syllable could be emitted, the Frenchman had pulled Matthew next to himself and wrapped the boy- no, man in an awkward embrace.

"Mon petit, do you truly wish to lay with Papa?" Silence. Long, pregnant silence that was only punctuated by the breathing of either male and sound of outside wind. Then, a tiny nod. "Please.. Papa." And so it was decided. Francis pulled the Canadian more comfortably into his bed, and Matthew settled his head on the Frenchman's shoulder. It was clumsy, uncomfortable, and much too unreasonable. But it was perfect.

And Papa would not have it any other way.

A/N: Reviews are appreciated.


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